Chapter 22
Harper spent the return trip filling him in on the visit to Lansing with his full focus on her mouth. When she clicked on the tape, he listened to part of the conversation before his mind drifted away from the investigation.
Although he wasn’t the sentimental type, and his recently realized feelings for her would likely go nowhere—even after the case concluded—she did have a mouth for doing all sorts of wicked things to him. He just couldn’t shake the attraction.
Then there was the promise not to get physical. He intended to keep that even if it killed him.
During the years of his misspent youth, before he’d noticed Harper had grown up from the awkward tangle of wild hair and clumsiness in elementary school, he’d kissed a lot of girls. He’d also done more with several of them.
In fact, no one was more surprised than he that he’d notice Harper at all. She’d always hovered quietly in the background of his life, a face in his yearbooks.
Well, except the shoe thing. That was their one previous conversation. Remembering Harper calling him Butt Face for the first time, never failed to make him smile.
Then one day, there she was, a teenager, kind of awkward and certainly not flashy. Still in possession of all that hair but without the silver braces, he’d discovered that she’d had a mouth he couldn’t take his eyes off.
There was the bikini thing, too.
She’d wanted nothing to do with him and all his teen boy hormones. He should have taken her rejection and moved on. By the time he wore her down with his charm—as it was—he’d fallen full-on in love with her and wondered when in the hell that had happened.
Now she was back and he’d still give his left nut to see her happy. Hell, both nuts.
“Noah?”
Her voice snapped him around. He smiled sheepishly. “Can you replay that last part?”
“Were you listening at all?”
“Mostly. Up until the disturbing part about the wife running over Gerald with the car.” That had shades of Harper. She’d also threatened to back over him, though hers was all in fun. Or so he’d thought. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
Impatient, she dropped the phone into his lap. “If my case is so unimportant that you can’t pay attention, at least you should share what you were thinking about.”
He scratched his chin and confessed. “Braces. I was thinking about your braces.”
“My—?” At least she didn’t look angry. Puzzled, maybe. “Would you like to tell me why?”
Telling her about his obsession with her mouth had to stay private. A partial truth she could handle. “This isn’t really about the braces per se. I’ve just noticed how much you’ve changed over the last eleven years. You’ve become confident, though I suspect you don’t see it. I like the new Harper.”
A smile tugged her mouth. “Well, thanks.”
“I mean it.” Before he got mushy, he returned to the case. He went back and listened to the full tape. “Now tell me what your plan is.”
“I said that I’d like to interview Betty Anne ASAP, don’t you think? If she’s the killer, she has money, and she could make a run over the border. We need to lock her down before she realizes she’s a suspect.”
“Do you think she’ll agree to talk?”
Harper changed lanes. He wished she’d let him drive his truck. Riding around in this wreck was humiliating.
“I’m not sure. If she’s guilty, she’ll want me to take the fall. She’ll probably avoid doing anything that would cause her to slip up and implicate herself. If she’s innocent, and Willard has her convinced I’m guilty, then she won’t want to be anywhere near me. She’ll think I’m dangerous.”
“That isn’t helpful.” He let her comments sink in. “Why don’t we go by her house? You’d be surprised by how talkative people can be when they think they’re duping the authorities.”
Harper changed lanes and headed for the expressway. “If she sees me, she won’t be happy.”
“I’ve considered that,” he said. “We could leave you in the car. On the other hand, I’d like to gauge her reaction to you. If she’s angry, she may say or do something unexpected.”
Harper glanced over. “Like punch me in the face?”
He shrugged. “Promise to duck if you see a fist coming.”
For the second time that day, Harper was headed to Lansing in a car held together by duct tape and a prayer.
The Covington mansion was just outside of the city where there were more golf courses than houses. The black gate stood open and Harper took that as an invitation to enter. She boldly drove up the circular drive in front of the sprawling stone mansion and parked.
A gardener frowned as the engine coughed to a stop.
“Even he has vehicle standards,” Noah groused.
“Snobs.”
Knowing that Betty Anne could react negatively to Harper, she let him take the lead to the house. The entry had columns that went up to the third floor. Giant gold urns stuffed with flowers flanked both sides of the oversized oak door.
“I like my mansions understated,” he snarked and glanced over his shoulder. “You know what they say about a man with oversized urns? He’s compensating for a small—”
“Behave yourself,” she hissed but her eyes danced.
Despite the stress of her case, she hadn’t lost her sense of humor. Even when she thought he was out of line.
He rang the bell. A large Amazonian woman in a purple pant suit answered with a put-upon expression. She and Noah were almost eye-to-eye. She scanned his face, lifted a brow that he humorously took for appreciation of his chiseled good looks and manly musculature, and softened slightly.
“What can I do for you, sir?” Her heavy accent spoke of a Slavic background and her pale green eyes held his. The hint of a smile tugged her mouth.
“My name is Noah Slade. I’m an investigator. And you are?”
“I am Berit Hansen. Mrs. Covington’s assistant.” She glanced at Harper who’d hung back a step. “Who are you?”
“I’m HJ Evans. His assistant.”
Noah nodded. Harper was quick on her feet. “I’d like to ask Mrs. Covington about her husband’s death. Is she home?”
The answer was drowned out by an ear-splitting shriek from inside the house. Both Noah and Harper flinched. Then the voice screamed, “Killer!
Betty Anne ran toward the door with her flip flops slapping the marble floor, her drab gray muumuu tangling around her legs, and her hand outstretched toward Harper. “You killed my husband! Call the dogs!”
“Hans!” Berit yelled as she quickly went from flirtatious to attack mode. “Franz! Come!
Dogs? Noah backed up as toenails clicked across polished marble. Two huge dogs of undetermined breed appeared out of an open door. Alert, the dogs paused for instructions.
“Kill!” Berit commanded. So much for her appreciation of his unshaven jawline. Betty Anne ordered and she followed directions without question.
The dogs charged. “Run!” he shouted. Noah spun and shoved Harper across the porch and down the stairs. They raced for the car. The dogs half ran half rolled down the steps and hit the ground sprinting, their claws biting into gravel.
Harper jumped into the driver’s side a second before Noah, and got the door closed as one of the dogs hit his skull on metal. The beast fell back on his rump, shook his head, and jumped up against the window, clawing at the glass.
The other leaped onto the hood. Both dogs barked and slobbered. Noah breathed heavily beside her. “That was close.”
“I don’t think Betty Anne wants an interview,” she said and covered her heart with both hands.
“You think?”
The dog on her side pulled at the door handle with massive canines while the other one got a claw under the edge of the duct tape and pulled it up. Having found a new toy, he began the process of dismantling her tape job on the hood and grill.
“We need to get out of here,” Noah said. He dug into his pocket. No keys. “Did I give you the keys?”
“No.” They both looked out the windshield and followed the path from porch to car. The keychain was visible about fifteen feet out. Betty Anne and Berit stood, arms crossed, smug and smiling.
“Shit,” he said.
“What can we do? They didn’t give me a second set.”
Thoroughly pissed off, Noah weighed their options. “I’ll have to make a run for the keys.”
“Nuh-uh.” Harper shook her head. “Think about what happened to the people who messed with Cujo.”
The movie dog had gotten rabies and went crazy. The aftermath was not pretty. “Well, I’m not going to live here.” The dogs were eating the Yugo. Eventually they’d get inside and make dinner out of him and Harper.
“I have an idea.” He pulled off his shoe, cracked the window, and gave a sharp whistle. The dogs lifted their heads. One had a bent windshield wiper in his mouth.
“Fetch!” he yelled and chucked the shoe as far as he could across the pavers. At the awkward angle, it didn’t go far enough. Still, the dogs took off after the shoe and gave him time to get the door open.
Noah jumped from the car. The dogs, hearing his exit, stopped fighting over the shoe and turned.
Harper screamed, “Noah!”